


My time, my wine, my spirit, my trust; trying to find a part of me you didn't take up

by uhmyeah



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Heartache, Heavy Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Spoilers, Stars, mentions of god and satan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 05:09:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20384191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uhmyeah/pseuds/uhmyeah
Summary: Crowley hurts, a lot, and he reflects, a lot, and drinks, a lot. Aziraphale is the source of a lot of heartache and angst within Crowley, but only because Crowley is big dumb and doesn't understand anything, but neither does Aziraphale.





	My time, my wine, my spirit, my trust; trying to find a part of me you didn't take up

**Author's Note:**

> hello. first fic in this fandom. if you're new, hello, this is my only gomens fic. if you're from my account, hello, welcome into my hyperfixation for the past four months. also the title is from death by a thousand cuts by taylor swift lmao

It was the 1800s. He was a demon, and he was asking for holy water. The mere idea sounds ridiculous, though not to himself yet. The angel, of whom he asked, reacted justly-outraged on the outside. What Crowley would not know until much, much later, was that it was the exact opposite on the inside. The question for holy water did not sound like that much of a question, at least not one that justified that extravagant of a reaction, to Crowley. He knew that it would be used as protection, though Aziraphale thought it was a suicide method. Which, understandable, looking back.

When the 1960’s rolled around, so did one fateful night that Crowley tries, even now, to wipe off of his memory. The angel and the demon were sitting in the Bentley, and Crowley was given a flask of holy water. The container was, of course, tartan, which made the gift so much more powerful, albeit hideous. Aziraphale gave it to him so cautiously, demanded that he took care of it and himself, and that’s when two and two met for Crowley-all these years, Aziraphale had thought it would be used for suicide. He understood then, the reaction at the park. He understood, then, the care that Aziraphale had for him. He had felt very strongly for the angel since the literal beginning of time, and this gesture solidified his feelings, and gave him a deeper knowledge about how the angel felt. Or so he thought.

Crowley offered a ride, to anywhere, to his angel. Anywhere at all. However, like many things, Crowley thought incorrectly. Or, rather, correctly, but not in the way he was supposed to. Aziraphale looked saddened, and Crowley didn’t know why. Had he said something? Was it the holy water still?

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” said the angel.

In that moment, exactly, Crowley thinks that he experienced his Fall all over again. The first time he re-experienced it, it was much longer, therefore more tolerable. It was the Fall, into love with the angel. It was pleasurable, and it felt more like a Rise rather than a Fall. Though, it was a Fall, he supposes. It was much like Falling, but instead of Sauntering Vaguely Downwards, it was Sauntering Vaguely into A New Feeling, One That Is Warm, Not Hot Like Hell, One That Is Comforting. It was not plummeting, or painful, it just Was.

This Fall, however, not so much. This was much more akin to The Fall. He wasn’t burning, or bleeding, or screaming and grasping for a Heaven that doesn’t want him, though. He was sitting, dumbfounded, infatuated eyes slitting to an almost nonexistent pupil behind darkened glasses. It was not his body that Fell, it was his heart, his organs, his chest. His insides were on a never-ending freefall; he couldn’t breathe even if he made an effort to, his heart might as well have stopped beating. Aziraphale just got out of the car and walked away.

He stayed like that, in his car, parked on the side of some street, for three sunrises. No music, no warmth through the vents, nothing. He’d always known enough about humans to be like one, but in those days, he stopped making any effort. No longer did he breathe, or keep his organs beating, or blood running. Any form of genitalia he might have possessed was no longer. He was in a human body, though never in his 6000 year life had he felt less like one.

Eventually, he managed to drive down to his apartment. He remembered to remember to make his legs work so he could move, but as soon as he locked his door, the human body vanished and turned into one of a snake. He tried getting into his bed, but he couldn’t manage, so he (blastedly) turned into a human once more for long enough to cocoon himself under black blankets before becoming his snake form once more. And there he stayed, for he can’t remember how long.

A couple of decades had passed, he was a nanny to who he thought was the Antichrist for a while. He was just beginning to be able to store The Moment From The Sixties in his box of memories labelled “Do not, under ANY circumstance, touch. Especially you, Aziraphale, if for whatever reason you’re inside my brain.”. Things were good, as good as things could be when the world was ending because you and your 6000 year old love interest who doesn’t reciprocate the feeling raised the wrong antichrist for eleven years.

Crowley had called the angel and asked for a rendezvous at one of their Spots, the bandstand. If Crowley thought the sixties were bad, he had a whole new train coming. They fought. Obviously, when you know someone as long as Aziraphale and Crowley have known each other, a fight is bound to happen. Though, this fight truly was different. All of the other ones were mostly just minor disagreements, easily forgotten over a nice bottle of red and a chat at three in the morning. This fight, well, it was like Falling, again. Though this felt permanent. This Fall, it felt minor, until Crowley had time to let it ruminate.

The more he thought about it, the more it Hurt; more than Falling falling, more than his wings being burned to a crisp, more than just about anything demonic he could conjure up (and he tried. He cursed himself for an hour, he ripped a leaf off of his Favorite, Very Well Behaved plant, he changed his wallpaper to tartan for a whole ten minutes before he started crying because it reminded him of Aziraphale). This felt like An End, and the poetic side of Crowley snickered because it, quite literally, was The End, Of Everything.

So he did what any logical, heartbroken lover does: he makes an extravagant apology, in public, to Aziraphale. He spent hours looking for the perfect destination for them to run off to, somewhere in the stars, far from earth, far from heaven and hell. Of course it will work!

It didn’t.

Alpha Centauri. Just them. Except, not. Just no one. Nobody, ever, will ever live in Alpha Centauri, Crowley made sure of it beforehand. He blessed it, well, cursed it. No life could ever enter into Alpha Centauri, except for them. No travelers, no aliens, nothing and no one except him and Aziraphale. Except now, neither of them will, so no one ever will.

He told Aziraphale that he’d pack his bags and go without him. He lied. Instead, he went home. He wanted to curse the whole damn universe, quite nearly cursed God Herself, but thought better against it. He couldn’t let that possibly get Aziraphale in trouble. He settled for a nice, aged, expensive bottle of bourbon and spread himself out in his bed and drank until he couldn’t anymore.

The later the night grew, the more awake Crowley became. He situated a comfortable area beside a window and stared longingly at the night sky. He wasn’t as drunk as he was before, though he was still hammered quite a bit. He briefly longed for one of those drugs he used in the back of his car with a lovely man with a moustache and a lovely voice one night after a concert that was spent tempting each other back and forth; one from the stage in a tank top and tight, tight jeans, and one from the crowd, cheering on and smirking at the innuendos that were crafted for the demon. Crowley smiled at the memory, sending that man love and the feeling of singing for sold out stadiums, along with a tempting that he used back in those days that was only used for him. He hoped that, wherever the man ended up, was treating him well. He truly was wonderful.

The stars glimmered in the sky, seemingly brighter than usual. His drunken state truly did wonders, though, and apparently those wonders were only good for making him sad. He sighed and reached for the bottle he placed near him and went to take a long drink, but found the bottle empty, so he made a noise and banged the back of his head on the window pane. His luck, really. He really was hoping that he could move to the stars with Aziraphale. When Crowley was an angel, he crafted all of the stars, perfected each and every one of them. He spent extra time on Alpha Centauri’s system, though. It always was his preferred spot in the universe. Just far enough away from Earth’s Solar System. It had much better viewing options for comets and meteor showers, and truly, it was very romantic. It was beautiful; Crowley had visited there one day when Galileo was discovering things, just to go make sure it was still working. It was, and it took a lot out of Crowley to not just stay there. He came back though, and it was mostly, admittedly, to see the angel. Go-Sa-someone, he really has it bad, he thinks. He didn’t even realize he was crying until he reached up to move his glasses.

Well, the dam already broke, why not just let it go? Crowley cried. His brain flooded with the 6000 years of accumulated memories with the angel, he loved him, needed him, honest to someone _worshipped_ him. Why couldn’t he have just agreed, for once in his blessed life? Just once. They could move, just them, away from the constant supervision and ridicule of heaven and hell. Why did that sound so bad? They both hated their sides, which, didn’t even _exist!_ anymore, why couldn’t the angel just agree! Because of the bookshop, and the people, and the little crepe shop down the street and the one in Paris and the Ritz and alcohol and all the indulgences the angel, well, indulges in, Crowley thinks. But there could be those thing in Alpha Centauri too! Better crepes, better books, better alcohol, and _me_. Oh, someone, what if it was me, Crowley thinks. Could it be? He is a demon, after all. And heaven does…dislike him, and get onto the angel for it…oh, someone, it _is._ It isn’t earthly desire, it isn’t earth itself, it is _Crowley_. The demon fully wails out a whimper of despair and looks out at the stars, golden eyes shining with tears that brim black.

“_Fuck_ all of you, every single last entity up there and down below. Every single one of you!” Crowley yells through gritted teeth and sob filled, wet throat, fist pounding hard against the glass one time.

Fueled on depression and heartache, he needed to see Aziraphale, so he drove to the bookshop the next day, only to find it engulfed in flame. Perfect, he thought, couldn’t tell him sorry, or goodbye, or anything. Still, despite knowing fully well his best friend and love interest that was slowly tearing him apart piece by piece was gone, he snapped the doors open and snapped the doors locked. Frantically, he ran, trying to find Aziraphale. He desperately called for him, grasping onto any hope he had left in his saddened, broken body. It was fruitless.

“Bastards!” he yelled at heaven and hell and anyone, everyone else, voice filled with anger and pain.

He left.

He drank.

He was left thinking to himself and drunk, which is never a good combination. But, it was a combination, and it felt better than dealing with the pain of actually, really losing his angel. His angel. No, not his, Aziraphale was never his, never could be. Never should be, and never would be. Even if he were to want to be, he was an angel and Crowley was a de-was. Aziraphale was an angel, he is no longer, he died, he fully, truly _died, _in a _fire_, how fucking _poetic_\- book loving, bookshop owning angel, Princi-fucking-pality of heaven, died in a fire, of all things. He’d never done a single thing wrong in his whole blessed life, and he died in flames, just like those cast from heaven. He very nearly cursed away all of the stars, every single one of them, just out of spite. Well, spite and heartache. Crowley took another swig of whatever alcohol he was having, Aziraphale would’ve liked this one, and motioned the bartender for another. He wished Aziraphale was with him, he wished he could drink with him again, and now he can’t and never will be able to again oh _fuck_ heaven and hell, they killed him, they killed his best friend and love interest who could now never possibly evolve into lov_er_. Crowley makes a pitiful sound and takes a long sip of the new, eighth glass of whatever, and decides he will never love again, never tempt or lust after or bat eyes at or _anything_ to _anyone_ ever, ever again, in all of eternity. He also makes a decision to never drink again, but that decision is cut short when he sees-well, thinks he sees-Aziraphale. He takes a drink and lowers his glasses, and sure enough, it’s him! He’s all…wobbly, though.

“You’re…wobbly,” he says, intelligently.

“Yes, well, I am---that isn’t the point!” Aziraphale begins. He says a lot of words Crowley vaguely understands as English, and then mentions the shop.

Well, so much for not drinking.

“It…it burned down, all of it,” Crowley says sadly.

The look Aziraphale gives him is pitiful and gut wrenchingly, body discorporatingly painful to see.

“I lost my best friend,” Crowley chokes out.

“Oh…” Aziraphale replies.

The moment is broken, though, when Aziraphale brings up the book of prophecies he left. Crowley chokes on his whatever in a glass and waves the book around like a maniac.

“…Agnes Nutter! I’ve got it, souvenir!” Crowley slurs.

Aziraphale _beams_, and Crowley positively aches.

When the demon next sees Aziraphale, he is decidedly not in his regular, soft body. The dress does suit him, though. And the scarlet hair, but that’s iffy. Eventually, he returns to the soft body, though he manages to break Crowley’s heart, again, but just briefly because Crowley will absolutely _not_ let that ruin his mood. His angel is back, they’re about to fight Satan himself, and Crowley is not about to let a bit of heartbreak ruin the moment, or the spite shooting a million miles an hour to every nerve ending on his body.

“Do something…or I’ll never speak to you again!” Aziraphale threatens.

Crowley growls out a low noise and sends the angel and the antichrist with him into a whole other world. Is _that_ enough?

The world didn’t end, a couple of kids beat the Four Horsemen, and one eleven year old kid who is actually the Antichrist told Satan Himself that he wasn’t shit, or his real father.

“The balls on that one, eh?” Crowley says to Aziraphale in his apartment that night. The first night Aziraphale had ever stayed over.

“I suppose, though the wording is…something to be desired. What now?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s the first night of the rest of our lives, what do we do?”

Oh. The First Night Of The Rest Of Their Lives, and Aziraphale was lounging on Crowley’s sofa for the first time ever, in his apartment for the first time ever, presumably spending the night for the first night ever.

“Ngk. Mm. I don’t…drink. We need a drink, you need what I was having at the bar when you were wobbly, which, please explain better when we drink some, I don’t understand at all, but oh someone, you’ll love it. It’s warm all the way down and tastes sort of like chocolate but bitter and sweet at the same time and-“ Crowley rambles, though he gets cut off with a peck to the lips.

When the two part, Crowley does stop breathing.

“Did you stop time, just then?” Aziraphale asks with a laugh in his voice.

“I. Ngk.” Crowley says.

“Are you quite alright, dear? What was that drink you were rambling on about?”

“F…ine. I’m, yeah. Uh, the, I think it was, don’t remember, honestly, I was too drunk and sad about losing you that I, bourbon, I think, maybe.”

“Ah, wonderful. I do believe we needed something a bit…harder, than our regular, don’t you?” Aziraphale asked, thumb rubbing calming circles against Crowley’s hand.

“Y-yeah, yes, harder.”

“Are you okay?”

“Great, good,”

“You are a terrible liar, you know.”

“You kissed me. You’re rubbing my hand…”

“Yes? Is that okay? I just figured, what, the world nearly ended and you and I-“

“How long?”

“How long what? You aren’t making much sense, dear.”

“Have you…me?”

“Crowley, what-“

“How long have you felt…that way…for me? Do you even feel a way about me, or am I reading into this wrong, like that time in Greece right when sex started being the thing to do, and I was still under the impression that sex was only for people who loved each other, so when that man…who was it, the one in the fancy house, when he came at me I well and truly thought he was in love with me and I was like ‘mate, we just met, how are you already in love with me’ and he was like ‘what the bloody hell are you on about, I just wanna fuck’, and then things clicked far too late?”

Aziraphale was holding back laughter.

“You…oh, Crowley. Yes, dear, I do feel a way about you, in fact, I do believe I feel copious amounts of love for you, could you not feel in for all these years?”

“Feel it…what?”

“Oh, Crowley. It must be because you aren’t human, nor angel. We radiate whatever we are feeling, but love is the strongest. Can you really not feel it?”

“No…it…I guess, in the Fall, it sorta. Warped my sense of feeling anything good. I enjoy alcohol and the warmth, but I don’t take pleasure from it, not in the way you would. I don’t exactly feel good things, but if you wanna ever feel bad things, I’m your demon.”

“Would you like to be? My demon?” Aziraphale asked, lacing his fingers cautiously with Crowley’s.

Crowley’s cheeks became hotter than the pits of hell, he thinks, and he’s suddenly very grateful for the glasses that cover his eyes.

“Your…me?”

“Yes, you, who else?”

“I…yes. If, if you want.”

“If I-Crowley, I asked you, of course I want.”

“Then, yes. Are you my…angel…then?”

The pair smiled.

“I suppose I am. Now, the bourbon? I would love to hear the story of how you managed to…fraternize…with? Who was it? Are you sure it was a ruler?”

“Mmm, no, no, not a ruler. Wasn’t that stuck up. Loved his ways of thinking, though. Real clever. Ari-something.“

“You don’t mean _Aristotle_, do you?”

“Oh! Yes, that was him! Lovely man, truly…” Crowley said, ending with a pleased sigh.

“You slept with Aristotle?!”

“Yes? Oh, do wipe that look off your face, you got Julius Caesar, don’t even try to deny it, I was the one who tempted him. It was mostly to see your face, but oh, I didn’t know you had a thing for _Romans_.”

“It was you! I knew he would not have gone for someone like me!”

“He would have. He loved ones like you.”

“Would you have? All those years ago, I mean.” Aziraphale asked.

“Me? Course. Never really gave a shit about men or women being the one I…lay with…and you were the one who had stayed by my side since Eden, so yes, I would have, even back then. You?” Crowley replied, throwing his legs onto Aziraphale’s lap, twirling his glass of…bourbon! It was bourbon!

“I think so. Maybe not as much when people started caring about gender and all of that, but I still would have wanted to. We are both quite daft, aren’t we?”

“Mm, the daftest. Could’ve spent ages bothering you.”

“Could have? What do you call the last 6000 years?” Aziraphale teased.

“Shut up,”

And he did. They drank, and laughed, until the bottle was empty and their hearts were full. The First Night Of The Rest Of Their Lives was one to be remembered, and they hoped they always would.


End file.
